Searching for Wallenberg

by Alan Lelchuk

  “You’ve created hope; that is enough, even plenty.”

  “You’re American?”

  “Yes, I am, but a transplant for over fifteen years. I teach here and have done work on Wallenberg myself. It’s a fascinating case, one that embarrasses the state and confuses the citizenry.”

  They drove to the hotel where Manny was staying.

  “So, I will see you about 7:30 for drinks and dinner, yes?”

  “Yes, thanks. I’ll try for a nap before that, so I won’t answer the phone.”

  At the desk, there were already three envelopes with messages waiting for him. When he got up to his room, the red button was lit up on the message machine, and when he played it, there were seven messages: three from journalists, two from the media, one from the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, and another from a private caller.

  Manny undressed, took a shower and felt lighter, then lay down after calling the front desk and asking them to defer all calls until he came down or called later.

  What had he gotten himself into? That was the $64,000 question. He had come over here on a lark almost, maybe to test the waters, but really, he suspected, because he wanted some attention for his long-private investigation and steady devotion. Well, he was getting it, wasn’t he? In spades. The bright northern light filtered through the blinds, and he took out his eyemask; it would be light most of the night. At least he’d be safe through the dinner and evening, he believed. Who would have dreamed that taking the crazy lady fifty-percent seriously or, rather, humoring her—and himself—would lead to this? … What was it, after all? An event. Whose meanings would only emerge later on, he figured, maybe beginning tomorrow.

  What interested Manny, as his mind continued to rev, was how different reality was out here, away from books, from academics, from theories and research. You could publish serious papers and complex essays in learned journals; but once you made a public claim, out in the big world, the world was all over you, wanting more, more. Was this good for his pursuit? Was this what he wanted? Or was this what the Budapest lady wanted, all along? Some glare and publicity, her eight minutes of fame? Yes, some fame; that’s what worried him, a lot. He was unused to this and afraid to confront it. (Especially because of the nature of his evidence, or nonevidence.)

  Yet, reflecting on it, hadn’t he served her purposes perfectly? Hadn’t she—and maybe the daughter too—played him exquisitely? …

  But now, ironically, was she and her fantasy serving him well too? … At least temporarily? Was her fantastical play and narrative now providing him a certain power in the real world, here? … But to do what with? he wondered.

  Was this a tipping moment for him and his career too?

  The dinner food was excellent, and the surrounding chat for the most part was polite. Lots of North Sea herrings—ah, too bad his father wasn’t alive still!—and salmon and cream sauces, and superb ice wine. Along with diffident Swedish probes at the table, collectively playing the proper host and not pushing or confronting their guest. Gellerman nodded, ate, and said little, and allowed the other panelists to dominate the discussion. When questioned directly, once or twice, with pointed questions, he put them off easily, with a casual answer about the continuing research of his project. No one protested; in fact, he was openly appreciated for his researcher’s restraint. (“Even though you are already trending like crazy on the Internet!”)

  Just before they departed for the evening, his host, Prof. Sonnanstine, suggested an early breakfast and trip to the airport, if he wanted to escape any of the diplomatic “cars” or further journalistic inquiries just now. “Yes, I think that will be very helpful,” said Manny, and they agreed to meet at 7:30 a.m. in the hotel restaurant.

  Back in his room, he felt easier, and, alone, watched a television melodrama. Actually, it was the American Law and Order. He lay back and … suddenly felt inspired. He straightened up, got out of bed, went to the small wooden desk with his trusty Apple laptop, and composed:

  Early July 1947; Lybianka Prison, Moscow

  A weary Daniel P. entered the conference room, where Raoul W. already was sitting on the other side of the table. Daniel dismissed the guard.

  “I have come to say good-bye to you, my friend,” Daniel said. “My time with you has come to an end, I am sorry to say.”

  Raoul looked up, startled. “What?”

  Daniel shook his small head. “I am removed from your case.”

  “But why?!”

  He shrugged. “Maybe because we have produced together nothing, you and me.”

  “You think this?” Raoul paused and reflected, “Yes, it makes a certain sense.”

  Daniel nodded.

  “You say ‘maybe.’ Can there be another reason?”

  Daniel breathed deeply. He narrowed his eyes and stared at Raoul.

  “Do speak up. What other reason are you thinking is possible?”

  Daniel got up, walked to the wall, lit a cigarette, came back and handed it to Raoul, and then lit one for himself. He sat back down.

  “Maybe they are removing me now because … because … they think the case is over? …”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You understand … these are mere suppositions … maybe the case is over, because the problem is about to be over.”

  Raoul smoked and shook his head, not understanding.

  Facing Raoul steadily, he said, “‘Where there’s a man, there’s a problem,’ is a favorite saying of Field Marshall Stalin.”

  Raoul leaned back now and said, “So, where there’s no man, there’s no problem.”

  “Yes.”

  Wallenberg gestured, stood up, and took his stroll to the cement wall, maybe fifteen feet away, where he stood by the radiator pipes. Inhaled and exhaled. Waved the smoke away with his hands.

  “There are worse sayings, I imagine,” said Raoul, with a rueful wit.

  Daniel acknowledged it with a small nod, and reached up to turn off the light bulb. He took out a pocket flashlight, while Raul stood at the wall.

  “Do you know when ‘the problem’ will be eliminated?” asked Wallenberg.

  Daniel said no.

  “But you are officially off the case, my case, today?”

  “Yes, today is my last day with you.”

  Raoul considered this. “Unless I say something of profound interest, perhaps?”

  Daniel looked over at him. “Oh, I have not even thought of such a thing.”

  Raoul wandered back to the table.

  “Here is a small packet for you.” Daniel set on the table a narrow box of two shading pencils, along with a magnifying glass. “This magnifier has been a personal favorite for a good number of years, and I have found it very useful when studying maps or precise lines. It may come in useful for your remaining work.”

  “How thoughtful.” Raoul lifted the two small objects and studied each separately. “‘Remaining work.’ I like the sound of that. I will have to hurry then … Thank you, I am touched; this magnifier will be useful, especially with these new pencils.”

  They paused and smoked, the cigarette ends flashing red in the semi-darkness.

  “I am very sorry,” said Daniel.

  “Yes, so am I. About not seeing you anymore.”

  Daniel nodded.

  “I have looked forward to our little chats. Our regular visits.”

  Daniel nodded. “Yes, we have grown used to each other.”

  Again, a silence fell, while each, the prisoner and the interrogator, reflected on matters, on the whole two years perhaps, in the familiar windowless room with the two straightbacked chairs, the wooden benches, and the concrete walls.

  “It is very useful when the light goes out now and then,” observed Raoul, smoking a new cigarette. “And we can be more private for a few minutes.”

  Daniel smoked, and offered, “Are there any letters or notes you may want to give me? I can see if I can get them through. Or perhaps a drawing or two?”

  Raoul rubbed the sides
of his cheek. “That is a thought, isn’t it? A drawing for a friend or family member. Maybe a sketch for my old Professor Slusser at Ann Arbor.” He smiled broadly. “He would appreciate that I kept up the practice, in different locales.”

  The small interrogator stood up, ran his hand through his hair, and put out his hand. Wallenberg stood and took it.

  “I wish you well.”

  “You have been … kindly to me, and I am grateful for that.”

  “I am sorry I couldn’t do more, for both of us, actually. This also goes for your important people in Stockholm. It might have ended … differently.”

  Raoul gave a little rueful smile. “Not all things have to end well, at least not in an obvious way. Perhaps it is best this way.”

  “Perhaps …” Daniel paused, trying to think of a final appropriate word. “The Jews will remember you.”

  Raoul stared at him through the dim grayness.

  “Others too, perhaps. But the Jews for sure.” He reached up, pulled on the light.

  “Well, even all this may end up differently, in memory,” Raoul opined, almost peacefully.

  Finished, Gellerman leaned back now. Was there too much melodrama here, he wondered? Melodrama was inevitable. But was this excessive? Moreoever, was Daniel capable of pronouncing those last lines about the Jews? That was a question. (Maybe that was a self-revelation?) Also, would Daniel have committed himself this way, risked himself, in such a farewell visit? … (Or was he actually setting up RW in case he wanted, at the last minute, to confess a few things?) Judging from the real-life visit that Manny had had with Daniel, he very well might have. In 1991, when the KGB called Daniel in to question him about the case, promising him no consequences no matter what occurred, Daniel said he knew nothing, remembered nothing. Had he been guilty in any way? … And if Daniel’s son knew nothing about his affairs, as he claimed, then had Daniel been especially prudent there? Still, how much of the friendship was based upon something beyond endurance, beyond the two years of being locked together? Or was that enough? …

  Manny had another impulse, and wrote a coda:

  Back in his cell, Raoul smoked and paced his eight steps and back. So it is all over. Good enough. No more falses hopes, no more fantasies of last minute reprieves. I leave that for Dostoyevsky. For me, I will do my last sketches, do my exercises, focus my mind. Perhaps write a note or two, and try to slip them through to Daniel. It may be easier this way, actually, without the tiny speck of hope that one day my cousins will come through finally and bail me out, or that the Swedish government will get pricked and show courage, or that the Americans will create something of an opening. Really, only the Americans might have whipped up a surprise, but now it is too late. Well, Grandfather, I am glad you are gone now and won’t have to hear of this ignominious end for me. You don’t deserve that, sir. You had such high expectations for me. And you, dear Mother, you will not know about it for some years, I am sure. Good. So, I am ready for the problem to be eliminated, Tovarishch Stalin.

  In the morning Manny was up early and met his host for the 7:30 breakfast, and, skipping the messages, he was out of the hotel by 8:20 and departed for the airport. The fellow said, “I will let them all know that you have much research to get back to, plus teaching, and you will be in touch when you can.”

  “That’s just about right. Thanks.”

  He almost made it too, but at the airport, he was caught up by two members of the journalistic corps, a man and woman team. “Professor, please, can you say a few words about the nature of the Wallenberg family in Budapest? We have been shocked, you may say, to hear about this revelation, which is so important and exciting for all Swedes to know about.”

  Manny faced the brown-haired woman holding a pad. “How did you find out about this news, by the way?”

  The young man said, “We got a surprise e-mail from Budapest, actually, a few weeks ago.”

  “Yes, that’s right. That is why you were invited to the conference, I believe.”

  Of course, what a dummy! Manny scolded himself. She had taken matters into her own crafty hands!

  “Well,” he responded, “just as I said last night, it remains to be seen how authentic this ‘family’ is. This is what I am investigating now, and therefore it would be premature to comment on it.”

  “Aren’t you being ultraconservative, sir?”

  “And playing the academic research card too strongly?”

  Gellerman smiled. “Your English is sophisticated, maybe even more so than the English of some of our own journalists.”

  They smiled politely and waited, one with a tiny recorder, the other with the pad.

  “Let let me have your e-mail address,” Manny said, “and when I know something, you shall be the first to know, okay?”

  The woman produced a professional card and gave it to Manny. Boel Andersson, Dagens Nyheter. “We would prefer to do a feature story, you understand, for the Sunday magazine.”

  “And we can come over to you in New Hampshire, if that is more convenient.”

  “Well, thanks. Now I have your addresses and phone number, and I will be in touch.”

  “Please understand, Professor Gellerman, the story of Raoul Wallenberg is the story of the Swedish people, both of its sides, the bravery and the cowardice.”

  “His story is a metaphor for the Swedish soul, Professor, and how that has been corrupted through the years.”

  What handsome rhetoric, he thought, slipping away. In the Scandinavian Airlines jet, he smiled at Zsuzsanna’s shrewedness, her tactics. So he had been set up, all along the way, by the Puppeteer in Budapest—not a bizarre or mad woman but a supreme puppet master, who was pulling all his strings and watchings him dance! And now the entire state of Sweden would be in a state of high alert, high excitement, to learn more!

  And he, Gellerman, obscure professor, was now her chosen pointman to the world, and maybe the world’s point man to her! Brilliant!

  He tried to read an airline magazine, figuring things out and pondering the future … The Wallenberg scene of his last days in Lybianka still lingered in his mind, where Raoul is warned and released by his interrogator. In real life Raoul had been left alone, abandoned by all, so why shouldn’t Manny stay with him in the imagined life? And he remain moved by the scene still, at 35,000 feet … In the magazine he flipped through a piece on the Abba: The Museum, another on sailing in the archipelego, and a third on a new department story created with fancy architecture. In another world, it might have been Raoul designing this store and other assorted buildings in his Stockholm …

  Opening his laptop, he saw a new note from Zsuzsanna in Budapest:

  How are you, my friend? What is new with you and our project? Have you started to work on the organization yet? I know that aspect may be my fatal flaw. Meanwhile, I have been reading two books of great fascination, I and Thou by Martin Buber and Gershom Scholem’s On the Kabbalah and Its Symbolism. Do you know these valuable texts? You have to reread them to fully derive their meanings. For example, here are lines from Buber, which I think relate strongly to my father: “But what if a man’s mission requires him to know only his association with his cause and no relation to any You, no present encounter with any You, so that everything around him becomes It and subservient to his cause? How about the I-saying of Napoleon? Wasn’t that legitimate? Is this a phenomenon of experiencing and using no person?” Buber then goes on to show how Nap. never knew “the dimension of the you.” You can see, Professor, the true value of my mother for my father, how she became his personal You so that his cause, to save the Jews, was not merely an It? I am probably putting this badly, but you understand what I am getting at, yes?”

  faithfully yrs, Zsuzsa

  The stewardess asked him if he wished a drink, and he asked for a ginger ale. She proceeded to find one and pour it in a cup for him. Manny reread the note, once again surprised by her detour. Naturally, she knew he had just attended this conference, and probably what had occurred, but was sly
ly waiting for him to announce any news. In the meantime, a little luftmenschen learning. Face it, Manny, the Chessmaster from Budapest was two steps ahead of you, no matter how hard you tried to catch up. He wrote back:

  On my way home to NH from Stockholm, where I attended a conference on the fate of RW. I think I was able to contribute a few words of scholarly appreciation, when someone mentioned the rumor of a possible family in Budapest. As soon as I am home again in my woods, I will have the time to evaluate your papers.

  Your friend, MG

  There was also another e-mail from a New York Times reporter, asking about the recent news emanating from the conference. Manny didn’t answer that one. He set the empty cup on the corner of his tray, put on his eyeshade, and dozed off.

  CHAPTER 19

  Back home at the college there was a stir, and he discovered that he had become a sort of mini-celebrity while he was away. A note on the Internet, a newsy revelation from the conference that used his name, had ignited the buzz. This was a whole new experience for Manny, who for fifteen or twenty years had been a marginal player. His boss, the amiable Irish dynamo, called him up, asked him to lunch, and insisted that he give a faculty talk on his powerful research. Even the dean of faculty dropped him a note. The chair of the former Swedish-Russian Working Group invited him to attend a special meeting, excited to hear of his discoveries (especially the Pagliansky meeting). And the Swedish Embassy in DC called and invited him down for a luncheon discussion. Meanwhile, the handwriting analyst called and asked if he had gotten any of the original papers yet for him to examine?

  His head swirling, his thoughts revving, Manny was grateful to be diverted by the boy’s return from summer music camps and his needs for the new school year. Helping him, along with his mother, get prepared with fall items (new backpack, sneakers) grounded Manny for the week, and he was satisfied. “Dad, is it true, you’ve made a real discovery in the Wallenberg case?” What could Manny say, but “Maybe. It’s too early to tell.” The boy retorted, “Robby saw your name on Yahoo! Trending! That’s awesome!” The Internet would lift you, or doom you, or both.